


Time Enough

by vitaemine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Black Hermione Granger, F/M, First Time, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Secret Relationship - Sort Of, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 09:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18496063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitaemine/pseuds/vitaemine
Summary: It became a routine, on the nights he was still capable of putting words on paper. Write a letter. Fold it up. Seal it. Tuck it away. Only, tonight hadn’t been a letter writing night.





	1. Hallucination

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work I've actually had the courage to publish, feedback is appreciated but please be kind to me.
> 
> The lack of a name for the girl is intentional, but unfortunately, the tags give it away anyway. Hopefully it's not too distracting. If people seem interested, I may update with more of this piece, which should also provide more context into a few points that may be a bit confusing if it's left as a standalone piece. Currently, this is more of a test to see how people respond to my writing to decide whether or not I feel comfortable publishing more of this or other things in the future.
> 
> Only self-edited, so please excuse any minor errors.

Once, it might have been odd to find Fred Weasley awake, drunk and alone, so early in the morning. It was that simple fact that made it seem so strange that in the past three years, he was drunk more often than he was sober, barely sleeping and fending off hangovers with pepperup potions. The only times he kept himself from the toxic habit were Saturday evenings, a futile and misguided attempt to convince his mother that nothing was amiss.

 

(Molly knew.

 

She’d been too considerate to say anything, knowing how he’d struggled, but she’d certainly noticed the sullen change in her son.)

 

Even George had been unable to pull Fred from his wallowing, much to his twin’s dismay. He’d given up some time ago, restricting Fred to the back of the shop instead. Such a decision left their hired help in front while he focused on making stock and packing orders instead of dealing directly with customers.

 

Fred hadn’t said so, but he was grateful for it. It had become the only time he was able to focus on something other than _her_.

 

Still, after three years, the memory of the last time Fred had seen her was etched in his mind as if it had been only yesterday that she’d run from him. Fled, to Godric-knew-where, somewhere that his dozens of letters hadn’t been able to reach her. At first, he wondered if she’d simply sent them back unopened, but they took so long to come back each time that eventually he had decided his owl couldn’t find her at all.

 

Fred hadn’t given up writing them, even though each one now remained tucked away in a desk drawer unread and he’d long since given up trying to send them at all. It became a routine, on the nights he was still capable of putting words on paper.

 

_Write a letter._

 

_Fold it up._

 

_Seal it._

 

_Tuck it away._

 

Only, tonight hadn’t been a letter writing night. Fred was much too far gone for that, slumped on the floor with his back against the couch, a bottle of firewhisky still in hand as the very first hints of dawn began to lighten the sky outside.

 

It was as if the world simply didn’t care that Fred Weasley was not yet ready to face the day. A moment later, he realized with a bitter laugh that that was _exactly_ it. Why should the world stop for one man? How silly of him to delude himself into thinking that it might.

 

Resigned to it, he laid his head back against the couch cushions, losing himself, as he often did, in the memory of that night, nearly three years ago to the day.

 

—

 

Since opening their new Hogsmeade shop, something Fred insisted he was healed enough to be doing, he’d taken to living in the quiet village too. It had required some getting used to, but she had gone back to Hogwarts after the war’s end, as he had expected she would, and spending his time in Hogsmeade only made sense.

 

On the day she graduated from Hogwarts, she had beamed at him, so happy in spite of their trauma that Fred hadn’t been able to help sweeping her into his arms and spinning her around, his lips finding hers as he set her down again. It wasn’t the first kiss they’d shared, but it was the first that hadn’t been a shy, hidden affair.

 

The look in her eyes as they’d parted breathlessly was what had Fred saying, before he’d even had a chance to think through the implication of his words, “Come home with me. I’ve missed you so much.”

 

She tugged him toward the boundaries of the wards surrounding Hogwarts wordlessly, something Fred had grown used to in the time they’d spent together. When she was preoccupied with a thought in her mind, she tended to forget that he wasn't privy to the same thought. Interrupting her had never served him any better either; she'd explain in her own time.

 

As soon as they were beyond the gates of Hogwarts, Fred was unsurprised to feel the familiar tug of apparation at his navel, finding himself standing in the middle of his living room only a moment later. What caught him off guard was the way she clung to him as if she thought she'd never see him again, finally speaking only to utter so softly that he almost didn't catch her words, “I've missed you too, you great idiot.”

 

(Never had Fred been quite so happy to be called an idiot.)

 

That they'd written each other constantly, sometimes multiple times daily, and met up on Hogsmeade weekends didn't seem to matter. She missed him just as he missed her, and that was enough.

 

He wasn't quite sure when they'd begun to find their way to his bedroom after eating dinner before she was already pressed back against the door, one of his hands pressed against the small of her back to keep her from stumbling as the other reached blindly for the handle with their lips locked. Another few steps and he was turning them both, pinning her between himself and the other side of the door. The soft gasp she uttered, her fingers tugging at his hair at the same time, only earned her a throaty groan in return.

 

When she kissed him again, harder than ever, Fred took it as permission to allow his fingers to wander up her thighs and past the bottom of her skirt. It was a point they’d never yet progressed to—a point she’d never progressed to with anyone, in fact—and as he felt her shiver beneath his light caresses, he stopped, withdrawing enough to gauge her expression.

 

“It’s okay,” she urged despite the way her voice shook as she said it, anticipating the question Fred hadn’t yet asked. “I… I’m nervous, but I trust you.”

 

Her words were enough to bring a smile to his lips, expression gentling into one that hardly fit the moment of reckless passion they’d been indulging in until her reaction had stopped him. As he attempted to take a step back, she whimpered, trying to follow him before his faint chuckle stopped her. “I just want to lay you down on the bed so we can do this a bit more easily, yeah?”

 

Understanding, she nodded, moving toward the bed herself as she shed her outer robes before perching herself at the edge of the mattress, looking entirely uncertain of own actions. It was easy enough to guess by the look on her face the questions that were suddenly running through her mind too quickly to voice.

 

What was she to do now? Was he expecting her to undress entirely? Would her inexperience disappoint him somehow?

 

“Shh, I can practically hear you overthinking,” Fred teased lightly as he approached her again, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off as he went. The sight of his bare chest, at least, was one that she had seen before—she’d often woken him on the mornings of Hogsmeade visits, his love of sleep finding him still in bed when she entered his flat, waiting for him to emerge from his bedroom minutes later wearing only boxers and sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

 

(She had, however, taken to simply knocking on his bedroom door to wake him after entering unannounced the first time only to discover that he had a tendency to crawl into bed without dressing after an evening shower now that he lived alone.)

 

Something familiar, despite the nature of it, calmed her slightly, and as Fred’s hand cupped her cheek she leaned into his touch. “You’re fine, it’s just me,” his breath tickled her skin as he leaned forward to whisper his reassurance, lips tracing the curve of her jaw as he went. “Lay back, I’ll do the rest for now.”

 

As she complied, Fred settled between her legs, his fingers returning gingerly to their prior attentions. Slowly, he worked the material of her skirt up toward her hips, leaving a trail of luxurious kisses as he went. Again, she shivered beneath his touch, but this time it was accompanied by her reaching out to brush his hair back from his forehead, an action he took as encouragement.

 

It wasn’t until his lips reached the sensitive hollow of her inner hip that Fred stopped, his gaze shifting up to meet her eyes as he questioned more seriously, “Have you ever touched yourself before?”

 

“What—” Her cheeks reddened instantly, as if somehow appalled by his question despite where they found themselves.

 

“No judgment either way, I promise,” he responded, fingers toying experimentally with the band of her knickers. “I’m mainly asking for your sake.”

 

Reluctantly, still flushed, she nodded, admitting in a tiny voice, “...A little.”

 

Silently, by way of acknowledgment, Fred slid her knickers gently down her legs and off before his fingers found their way to the wet heat of her arousal. Instantly, she arched her back, the hand still in his hair tightening, pulling him closer. A breathless laugh escaped him, but still he said nothing before lowering his head, tongue passing over the soft folds spread apart by his fingers once, and then again with more purpose.

 

It wasn’t until his ministrations drifted toward her clit at the same time he slipped a finger into her that she spoke again, a pleading, “ _Fred_ …” barely discernible through a moan.

 

“Relax,” he soothed, the single word vibrating against her skin and causing her to arch into him more. Obligingly, he lapped at the sensitive bundle of nerves as his finger pressed deeper, stretching her slowly. A second finger followed soon after, accompanied by a deep hum of approval that was interrupted only by her sharp tug on his hair.

 

As Fred lifted his head to gaze at her, she shifted her hand to her neck, coaxing him to her. She found his lips the moment he was near enough, Fred uttering a pleased sound as her tongue passed over his lower lip, presumably tasting herself on him. His lips parted without complaint, leaning into her as his fingers curled inside her. She broke away from him with a soft gasp, wearing a conflicted look as she squirmed uncomfortably, pleading again, “Fred…”

 

She was struggling to put her request into words, but Fred, sensing what it was she was trying to express, sat back after pressing a lighter kiss to the corner of her lips. Pulling his fingers from inside her, he reached instead for her skirt, the way she lifted her hips helpfully and nodded an indication he’d been correct.

 

Sitting up as he pulled her skirt off, she reached tentatively for his belt, fumbling with it as he began on the buttons of her blouse. She succeeded in unzipping his trousers at the same time he slid the fabric off her shoulders and they paused, gazing at one another in a brief moment of silence. Fred was the one to break it first, if only by the sound of his shuffling off the bed, losing the bottom half of his clothing all at once as if to catch up with her as she reached up to remove her bra at the same time.

 

It was the first time they’d been fully exposed to each other, but she seemed too nervous to take it in as much as Fred might have wanted to. She reached for his hand, drawing him back to her, and he went willingly, finding no reason to deny her. The light press of his weight atop her, though he supported most of it with his arm, seemed a comfort to her, delicate touch beginning to explore his skin while wearing the expression that typically appeared only when she was studying something.

 

Then again, perhaps she _was_ studying him.

 

Fred laughed before he could stop himself, and her lips quickly turned down into a scowl. She was already opening her mouth to speak when he interrupted whatever she intended to say with a kiss, brief but far from chaste. “Not laughing about this,” he breathed quietly against her lips. “You’re just cute, looking at me like that.”

 

Her skeptical look was enough to portray just how she felt about being called cute, but Fred was keen to consider it a victory when, after a moment of thought, her lips twitched reluctantly into a smile again.

 

Whatever mirth either of them might have felt dissolved as Fred shifted against her, making his own arousal suddenly more apparent in the way his length slid against her heat. A startled gasp escaped her at the same time Fred forced out a breathless sigh, questioning softly, “You’re entirely sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Simple, but enough, particularly as her fingers found their way back into his hair, expression soft and trusting. Lowering a hand to guide himself, he pressed slowly into her, cursing beneath his breath at the way her muscles tightened instinctively. “Relax,” he reminded her again, lips and teeth grazing the skin of her neck as a distraction from his cock slowly burying deeper.

 

By the time he’d sheathed himself fully within her, she was panting, nails digging into his scalp with her eyes closed tightly in concentration. Fred prompted her to open her eyes and look at him again with a series of soft brushes of his cheek against hers, the question in his gaze clear. “It doesn’t hurt much,” she told him quietly, “but it feels weird.”

 

“Weird can be good,” he offered back, his grin containing just a hint of his usual mischief. As he withdrew before rocking forward again in the beginning of a slow pace, he hid the widening of his smile against her neck at the sound it elicited from her, something more guttural than he’d heard from her before. Something halfway between a moan and a growl, and he decided that he’d very much like to hear it again.

 

The more he thrust into her, the more she clung to him, seeking stability in the familiarity of him during an act that was wholly foreign. He knew, inherently, that he wouldn’t be able to draw it out too long, each roll of his hips harsher until he lost a sense of rhythm entirely, egged on by the whimpers and moans she breathed.

 

As his hand reached between them, he rubbed circles against her until her muscles tightened, this time as pleasure washed over her. She wrapped her arms around her neck, pulling him to her as her head fell back with a cry, and with a final jerk of his hips she had pulled his orgasm from him too, her name on his lips as he slumped over her, spent.

 

Tiredly, Fred shifted away from her, leaving the bed in search of his wand as soon as he’d regained his breath. A casual flick of it and he’d cleaned them both up, urging her beneath the covers as he pulled them back to settle himself.

 

Without being prompted, she curled into the warmth of Fred's body, her head settling against his chest as he wrapped an arm around her. He hadn’t yet said so, but he loved her. He knew that much as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply the mixed scent of the strange combination of smells she always carried with her—parchment and flowers—mingling with that of the sex they’d just indulged in.

 

Driven purely by the intensity of the realization, he suggested impulsively, “How would you feel about living here?”

 

But she never answered, her eyes already closed and breaths slow as she succumbed to the excitement and exhaustion of the day.

 

—

 

_How would you feel about living here?_

 

That had been the last thing he’d ever said to her. By the time he’d woken up in the morning, she’d been gone. Everything she owned had been removed from his flat and the Burrow as if she’d never been there in the first place.

 

Three years later, and he still couldn’t forget. Drowning himself in liquor never accomplished it either, no matter how hard he tried. Was it some sort of cruel punishment?

 

Just as Fred had managed to pick himself up off the floor to stumble toward his bedroom, the bottle in his hand somehow emptied while he’d been lost in his memories, a knock sounded at the door.

 

(But who on earth would be at his door before seven in the morning?)

 

Disgruntled, Fred dragged himself to the door instead, stumbling as he pulled it open only to sink to the floor in shock at the sight of the woman in the doorway. She looked nearly the same as she always had, her already dark skin looking as if she’d spent more time in the sun but otherwise just as he’d remembered her. A faint hint of freckles dotting her nose and cheekbones, deep brown eyes one could easily get lost in, and hair as curly and untamable as ever.

 

It was impossible.

 

With a sad, pathetic sort of laugh, Fred shook his head, slurring dazedly, “Merlin help me, I’m so drunk I’m hallucinating.”

 

That was the only answer, wasn’t it?


	2. The Story Behind It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though her sudden appearance hadn’t willed away all the hurt surrounding her disappearance, he’d always been too curious for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the handful of lovely and encouraging comments I've gotten already, I've decided to continue sharing this piece. I'm not exactly sure yet how long it will end up being, but there should be at least five parts, assuming it doesn't expand itself into something monstrous from there.

“Fred?”

 

His name on her lips sounded much different than it had when he’d last heard it, on that night so long ago. The longing was still present, if in a different context now, but taking over it slightly was the note of alarm that crept in as she observed the state of him.

 

He watched as she knelt before him, though he had a hard time focusing his gaze on her even when he managed to take note of the fact that her fingers against his forehead, brushing his hair back, felt almost _real_. “You—” She only managed to get out one word before the rest of the sentence was choked off by her notable attempt at keeping her emotions in check. “You’re not hallucinating, Fred… I’m really here, right in front of you.”

 

Fred pretended not to notice her defeated sigh as he turned his face from her. “That’s exactly what you would say if I was.” It was baffling logic on a good day, much less so early in the morning when his mind was foggy from both inebriation and fatigue.

 

How was he to know whether or not she was _really here, right in front of him_ , after three years?

 

He couldn’t very well interrogate her for something only they knew, as had become a habit during the war. If she _was_ nothing more than a waking dream conjured up by his lonely mind, she’d still know the proper answer to give.

 

She seemed to have a better idea of how to remedy the situation than he could come up with, standing and hooking her arms around one of his to haul him back to his feet. As he stumbled again, she pressed a hand to his chest to steady him, and as he looked down at her, startled, he found himself as lost as he’d ever been in the depths of her eyes.

 

For the first time in the three years she’d been gone, he allowed her name to tumble off his lips. It came out clumsily in his desperation, as if speaking it would make her real, would mean she was really there with him.

 

“ _Hermione_ …”

 

As tenderly as she ever had, she smiled at him. “Shh,” she breathed in a stunning mockery of the faintly teasing tone he’d so often used on her. “Let’s take you to bed. Perhaps once you’re sober you’ll stop thinking I’m not here and we can actually have a conversation.”

 

Entirely too exhausted—physically and emotionally—to argue, Fred nodded, allowing himself to lean on her as she guided him toward his bedroom. That wasn’t particularly telling either, he took note of with a small degree of disdain. The Hermione of _then_ had been no stranger to taking care of Fred; he’d needed it during the process of healing from his war injuries. It was another action she’d have taken, hallucination or not.

 

By the time Fred had come to the unhelpful conclusion that he was really no closer to determining whether or not she was _really_ in his flat, she was helping him into his bed and pulling the covers over him. It wasn’t until she turned to leave the room that Fred’s hand shot out to grab her wrist, shaking his head with a piteous look. “Don’t go,” he whispered, barely audible in a way that was entirely out of character for someone as naturally loud as Fred Weasley. “If I am imagining this… I—I’d like to at least _think_ I have one more chance to fall asleep with you.”

 

Hermione’s expression crumpled at his words, whatever front she’d been maintaining gone in the face of her own devastation. “Okay.”

 

It took her only a moment to slip beneath the covers with him, and one more after that for Fred to hold her to him as if he’d never let her go again. Her soft, ragged breaths were the only indication she was holding back tears, something she was managing to succeed at doing until his next statement reached her. “I wish I had just told you then that I loved you.”

 

Those seemed to be precisely the words necessary to tear down the last of the composure she’d been clinging to, burying her face against his chest to muffle a sob. And if he noticed that she’d begun silently wetting his shirt with her tears after that, he didn’t say anything as he let sleep take over him.

 

—

 

Fred had slept for much longer than he could recall doing at any point in the last few years. He recognized that much by the way his body _didn’t_ ache in protest as he attempted to rouse himself, as it typically did. Briefly, he wondered how he’d managed to do such a thing until he shifted enough to become aware that he was curled around something—or, more accurately, some _one_.

 

In an instant, Fred was fully awake and out of bed, eyes searching frantically for his wand as he purposefully ignored his pounding headache. When he failed to find it anywhere within reach, he dragged the woman from his bed, his forearm laid across her shoulders pinning her to the wall in lieu of holding her at wandpoint. She managed to look startled and unsurprised in the same moment, her wide-eyed gaze conflicting with the more resigned smile twitching at the corners of her lips.

 

“What was the first thing I said to you after I woke up in St. Mungo’s?” he questioned harshly, his mouth fixed in a scowl and not looking at all like he’d just been shaken from a slumber more peaceful than he was used to.

 

She was up to the task of alleviating his suspicion, however. “‘ _You look as awful as I feel, Granger_.’ Always the charmer, you were.”

 

Hermione’s sarcasm was lost on Fred, buried among the sudden realization that he hadn’t been imagining anything. She’d really shown up at his door that morning, after _three years,_  for a reason he still wasn’t certain of. All at once, he deflated, arm falling from its restricting hold only to slump against her with the weight of his body instead, asking the only question that came to mind: “ _Why_?”

 

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands lifted, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at her as she looked at him. She bit her lip in a way that made the part of Fred that still simply missed her wish it was possible to solve everything simply by sweeping her into his arms and kissing her, as he had years ago, for all the time they should have had since that night.

 

“I was… _terrified,_  Fred—not of you,” she insisted mid-sentence, noticing him opening his mouth to protest before he’d even gotten a word out. “Of my _own_ feelings. I’ve learned that I tend to fear the things I _do_ want as much as I resist the things I don’t, and I woke up in the middle of the night feeling really overwhelmed by what we’d done. I needed to find my parents, so I used it as an excuse… and it took me going all the way to Australia to realize that all I wanted was to be back _here_.”

 

“But why didn’t you come back until now?” It came out sounding weaker than Fred had meant it to, feeling pathetic despite the fact that she’d already witnessed him at his worst only hours ago.

 

“That’s…” Hermione took a deep breath, bracing herself for the answer that she knew she had to give him, the one that would make him understand. “I spent _months_ wondering how I might begin to explain to you why I didn’t, and for once in my life, I don’t know if I have the words to be able to. But I can show you, if you’ll give me the chance to.”

 

She was nervous, that much was perfectly clear by the way her hands trembled even as her fingers raked through his hair, seeking more contact. Ought he allow her the opportunity to explain herself somehow?

 

With a deep sigh, Fred took a step back, rubbing tiredly at his face before asking, “What do you mean, _show_ me?”

 

“We’d have to apparate.” He could hear the cautious optimism in her tone, the hope that if he was questioning what it meant that he’d consent to it. Though it didn’t stop her from wrinkling her nose in disdain as she observed, “You should probably at least change clothes first, however. Those reek of alcohol.”

 

The skepticism in Fred’s gaze was still clear, both of them staring, unmoving, at one another as one minute bled into two into more that they quickly lost track of. She, too afraid to say anything more and upset the delicate balance of his consideration; and he, torn between his simple desire to have her back at his side and the hurt of the last three years spent alone.

 

Finally, the tense silence was broken by another sigh as he tugged the firewhisky-stained shirt over his head, headed for the closet. It wasn’t exactly an agreement in such literal terms, but enough of one that Hermione smiled tentatively as he changed.

 

By the time Fred turned back to her, he found her holding out his wand to him—she must have found it while his attention had been on his closet—along with a potion he assumed (correctly, he observed as he swallowed it) was the pepperup potion that had been sitting atop the nightstand. Though her sudden appearance hadn’t willed away all the hurt surrounding her disappearance, he’d always been too curious for his own good. She knew that, he suspected, as she offered him her arm after he pocketed his wand.

 

She’d always been good at picking up on things like that.

 

—

 

Fred didn’t recognize the hallway Hermione had taken them to or the door that they stood in front of. “What—” he finally began to ask, wondering how this place could possibly explain why she’d been gone for so long, but she cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips.

 

“Just look, then ask questions.”

 

She reached for the door handle then, opening it into a room that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but that of a young child.

 

And then, abruptly, a third voice joined in their exchange, one that could only belong to the room’s occupant. “Mama!”

 

If Fred hadn’t still been so utterly lost in the situation, he might have more immediately been captivated by the sight of the toddler running across the room. He looked so very much like Hermione—dark curly hair, skin barely lighter than hers, the beginnings of his own set of freckles—that in an instant dread had settled in the pit of Fred’s stomach, his mind jumping to the worst possibility, as it so often did now.

 

Had he misread the implication of her words? Had she moved on from their one shared night of real intimacy and the dancing around being _together_ they’d been doing prior?

 

“Why don’t you tell him your name?” Hermione’s gentle voice broke into his thoughts, but as Fred looked at her, he realized she was talking not to him, but to the boy now in her arms.

 

The boy that, now that Fred was able to look more closely at him, he noticed had _blue_ eyes. More specifically, and more importantly, he had the light, slightly grey shade of blue eyes that had always belonged to the Weasley twins. And as he chirped happily, “Fweddie!” Fred swore he’d stopped breathing entirely as a sudden moment of clarity struck him.

 

How old was the boy? Fred tried frantically to work out the math in his mind—but really, he already knew the answer, didn’t he?

 

“That night…?”

 

Hermione could do nothing but nod.

 

“And you named him after me?”

 

Another nod.

 

“So he’s… a little over two?”

 

“Yes. I’m so sorry, Fred…” Hermione had finally found her words, interrupted only by the toddler in her arms reaching for Fred as she spoke to him.

 

Wordlessly, he took the boy from her— _his son_ , his mind supplied suddenly—as he nodded to her to continue.

 

“By the time I found out, it was because I was showing, and I was told it’d put too much strain on me to travel back here. After… well, after everything…” The slight softening of Fred’s expression showed his understanding of what she couldn’t bring herself to say. “The healers had told me after the war ended that my chances of ever conceiving were… practically nonexistent, and I already hadn’t been regular in quite some time after being on the run, so I never expected it, especially like this.”

 

At that, Fred let out a harsh breath, looking down at the boy in his arms with a faintly awed, “You’re a bit of a miracle then, huh?”

 

He didn’t expect an answer, at least not a coherent one, but was rewarded instead with a simple exclamation that made his heart swell beyond compare. “Dada!”

 

An incredulous laugh, faint but genuine, escaped Fred at the sudden reminder that he’d been a father without ever knowing it. But it still didn’t fill in _all_ the blanks, prompting him to ask, “You taught him who I am? Why not come back after he was born?”

 

“My parents,” Hermione explained weakly. “They’d just been found, and it took time to set their memories straight without harm. They came back with me, they’re downstairs now.” She didn’t seem to be finished, however, only pausing to utter a breathless sigh as she took in the sight of Fred completely entranced by the child she was only just introducing to him. “And… it seems so insignificant now that we’re _here_ , but I… I really worried you might not _want_ anything to do with him. We’re so young still, we’d never even decided what this _was,_  between us, it was—”

 

“Hermione,” Fred cut her off suddenly, his expression so serious the corners of his lips had begun to dip into a frown. “I’m—okay, I’m not going to lie and say I’m not still upset, and I’m not sure I completely understand, but I refuse to miss more time than I already have.”

 

She hesitated for a moment, stunned briefly by the frankness of his statement. As Fred turned his attention back to his namesake, Hermione allowed herself a soft smile that warmed her expression at the sight of him so focused on the excitedly wriggling boy he held. And if she had laughed quietly as little Freddie reached up to tug at his father’s vibrant red hair, well, she could just deny that.

 

Finally, Hermione found her voice. At that moment, she recognized that even if Fred was still angry with her, even if there was certainly more to be said to resolve the matter of her disappearing from his life, the child that had resulted from the night they’d shared was another story. His existence had brought her back to London, back to _Fred,_  and now he’d become Fred’s priority too.

 

(And if she was still hopeful that Fred would forgive her if given enough time, that was okay too, wasn’t it?)

 

Still, there wasn’t only Fred to worry about. “Do… do you mind if we wait a few days to tell your family? I’d like _us_ to have some time first. There’s so much more I need to say, and a lot of things I’m sure you still want to know.”

 

The sudden look of horror on Fred’s face made it clear he hadn’t thought as far as telling anyone yet. Groaning softly, he shook his head with a wince. “Merlin, mum’s going to either kill me or be planning my wedding the minute she finds out.”

 

Hermione only grimaced, nodding her agreement. The Weasley matriarch had always been overzealous when it came to her children’s relationships. The second she heard that one of her sons had fathered a child out of wedlock…

 

Fred’s sigh turned Hermione’s attention to him again to find that he was kneeling to release the toddler, who was now bored of being held, back into the room. “Sunday dinner, then?” he suggested hesitantly as he stood, one hand rubbing nervously at the back of his neck.

 

“Best to do it all at once, I suppose.” If only she sounded quite so certain.


End file.
